Scary Tales
by kade32
Summary: Here are the most frightening tales to tell in the dark. Beware!
1. The Tailypo

A long time ago, there was an old hermit who lived alone with his three hound dogs in a dilapidated log cabin in a clearing surrounded by an hour-long stretch of forest. The hermit lived off the meat of animals that he hunts with the assistance of his dogs and trusty rifle. He hunted deer and rabbits and any other sort of game that scampers around on all fours in the woods outside his home. During his occasional trip to the storehouse, he realized that his supply of sustenance in meat was diminishing fast and he and his dogs were growing hungry. That night after the sun went down, the hermit armed himself with his rifle and flashlight to hunt for some game to eat for an evening meal.

But there were no animals out at this hour. He was about to give up and head back to his cabin when a tiny rabbit popped out of a bush and on instinct, the hermit readied his gun and fired. The rabbit stopped dead in its tracks once the bullet hit and collapsed dead onto the ground. He took the rabbit's corpse back and cooked it, sharing it with his dogs. However, it unsurprisingly wasn't enough to satisfy his hunger so he went out once again with his dogs. After an hour in a half of searching the woods with his gun, he caught a glimpse of the black shape of a creature in the bushes just a meter from where he stood with a pair of glowing white eyes that looked like nightlights in the darkness.

The hermit aimed his gun and fired upon the unknown creature. It let out a loud shriek before it darted off into the distance out of sight. The hermit rushed to the scene to find only a long, black severed tail with fresh blood on it. Confused as to what specific animal this odd tail came from, but still undeniably starving, the hermit took the tail with him back to the cabin where he skinned it and made it into a stew. It was a delicious meal that filled his belly up good. He even shared some of it with his dogs who all munched on it greedily as they have been dying of hunger just as the old man was.

Tired, the hermit decided to turn in for the night as he put on his nightcap and laid down in bed. After a while, however, there came an unfamiliar sound coming from outside in the forest like the whisper of a soft breeze.

"Tailypo. Tailypo. Who has my tailypo?"

The hermit sprang up in the bed instantly upon hearing it and his eyes were wide with confusion. Was there somebody out there? There couldn't be. There wasn't any civilization around for miles. Surely, he must be hearing things or it must've just been the wind. The old hunter laid back down and was about to go back to sleep when he heard it again, but it sounded closer.

"Tailypo. Tailypo. Who has my tailypo?"

He heard it loud and clear this time and there was no denying that someone or something was outside. It had to be someone trying to rob him. Frightened, the hermit called for his dogs and sent them out into the darkness to attack whoever it was out there. The dogs charged out into the trees, barking wildly. The hermit listened to sound of his dogs' excessive mad barking until suddenly, there was a loud whimper of pain. Everything was dead silent after that. Two of the dogs came galloping back to the cabin, but one of them didn't and never returned. Believing it was final over, the old man returned to bed with relief. But then…

"Tailypo. Tailypo. Who has my tailypo?"

There came that sound again and it sounded almost human, but was an unnatural low growl emitting during the utterance of the words. The noise was a bit more closer now. The hermit called for his dogs, sicing them on the stranger outside. A minute later, like before, only one of them came back, but the other never returned. The old hermit slept restlessly in his bed the continuing hours of the night, but found himself being promptly woken up again by…

"Tailypo. Tailypo. Who has my tailypo?"

The sound was so much closer now, that it was practically coming from right outside his cabin. Frantic and panicked since he had only one dog left and a minimum amount of protection left, he armed himself with his rifle as he heard the sound of scratching and clawing on his front door before the door slowly opened and he trembled under the covers as the voice eerily came closer to his bedroom door.

"Tailypo. Tailypo. Who has my tailypo?"

The hermit cried fearfully for his remaining dog, but there was not even a bark in response. Now the old hunter was so visibly shaken, he aimed his gun at the bedroom door, waiting for the right moment to strike. Black claws reached out from under the door before slipping back under and as the door slowly creaked open, a claw reached in and the hermit felt a spitball in his throat as the creature made its presence known. A large, cat-like creature with black fur and red eyes.

"You've got my tailypo." The creature hissed with an inhuman, demonic voice.

"I don't have your tailypo!" screamed the hermit with desperation and shock.

But then he noticed the bleeding stub where the creature's tail used to be and it clicked in his mind that the tail he had eaten must belong to it. The tail was inside of his stomach. Quickly, the hermit aimed at the creature and pulled the trigger, but there was only a slight click. It was no longer loaded.

" _I WANT MY TAILYPO!_ "

With a loud roar, the creature leapt at the hunter, pouncing right on him. The old hermit screamed in helpless terror as the creature cut him open by the abdomen with its claws, spilling a mess of scarlet liquid everywhere until it finally found what it was looking for.

"Now I have my tailypo."


	2. Harold

When it got hot in the valley, Thomas and Alfred drove their cows into a cool, green pasture in the mountains to graze. Usually, they stayed there with the cows for two month. Then they brought them back down to the valley again. The work was easy enough, but, oh, it was boring! All day the two men tended their cows. At night, they went back to the tiny hut where they lived. They ate supper and worked in the garden and went to sleep. It was always the same. Then one day, Thomas had an idea that changed everything.

"Let's make a doll the size of a man!" He said. "It would be fun to make and we could put it in the garden to scare away the birds."

"It should look like Harold" Alfred said. Harold was a farmer they both hated. They made a doll out of old sacks, stuffed with straw and some of their old clothes. They gave it a pointy nose like Harold's and tiny eyes like his. Then they added blonde hair and a twisted frown. Of course, they also gave it Harold's name. Each morning on their way to the pasture, they tied Harold to a pole in the garden to scare away the birds. Each night, they brought him inside so he wouldn't get ruined if it rained. When they were feeling playful, they would talk to him. One of them would say, "How are the vegetables growing today, Harold?" and the other would answer in a crazy voice, "Very slowly". They both would laugh, but not Harold. Whenever something went wrong, they would take it out on Harold. They would curse at him, even kick or punch him. Sometimes, one of them would take the food they were eating, which they were both sick of, and smear it on the doll's face.

"How do you like that stew, Harold?" He would ask. "Well, you better eat it or else!" Then the two men would howl with laughter.

One night, after Alfred wiped Harold's face with food, Harold grunted.

"Did you hear that?!" Alfred asked.

"It was Harold!" Thomas said. "I was watching him when it happened! I can't believe it!"

"How could he grunt?" Alfred asked. "It's just a sack of straw! It's not possible!"

"Let's just throw him in the fire." Thomas said. "And that will be that."

"Hey, let's not do anything stupid!" said Alfred. "We don't know what's going on. When we move the cows down, we'll leave him behind. For now, let's just keep an eye on him."

So they left Harold sitting in the corner of the hut. They didn't talk to him or take him outside anymore. Now and then, the doll grunted, but that was all. After a few days, they decided there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe a mouse or some insects that had gotten inside Harold were making those sounds. So Thomas and Alfred went back to their old ways. Each morning they put Harold out in the garden and each night they brought him back into the hut. When they felt playful, they joked with him. When they felt mean, well, they treated him as bad as ever. Then one night, Alfred noticed something that frightened him.

"Harold is _growing!_ " He said.

"I was just thinking the same thing." said Thomas.

"Maybe it's just our imagination." Alfred replied. "We have been on this mountain a long time."

The next morning, while they were eating, Harold stood up and walked out of the hut. He climbed up on the roof and trotted back and forth like a horse on it's hind legs. All day and all night, he trotted like that. In the morning, Harold climbed down and stood in a far corner of the pasture. The men had no idea what he would do next. They were afraid. They decided to take the cows down into the valley the same day. When they left, Harold was nowhere in sight. They felt as if they had escaped a great danger. They began joking and singing. When they had only gone a mile or two, they realized they had forgotten to bring the milking stools. Neither one wanted to go back for them, but the stools would cost a lot to replace.

"There really is nothing to be afraid of." They told one another. "After all, what would a doll do?"

They drew straws to saw which one would go back. It was Thomas.

"I'll catch up with you." He said and Alfred walked toward the valley.

When Alfred came to arise in the path, he looked back for Thomas. He did not see him anywhere. But he did see Harold. The doll was on the roof of the hut again and as Alfred watched, Harold kneeled and stretched out a bloody skin to dry in the sun.


	3. The Tell-Tale Heart

**The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe**

True! Nervous. Very, very dreadfully nervous. I had been and am, but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all, was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain. But once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture. A pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded, with what caution, with what foresight, with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it, oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! Would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously, oh, so cautiously, cautiously (for the hinges creaked). I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights. Every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed. And so it was impossible to do the work. For it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea and perhaps he heard me for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back, but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out, "Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening. Just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief. Oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with it's dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing, but the wind in the chimney", "It is only a mouse crossing the floor" or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp". Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions. But he had found all in vain. All in vain, because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel. Although, he neither saw nor heard to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little; a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily, until at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness. All a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say! Louder every moment! Do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous. So I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me. The sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once, once only. In an instant, I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me. It would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all, I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye, not even his, could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out. No stain of any kind. No blood-spot whatsoever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all. Ha! Ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock, still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night. Suspicion of foul play had been aroused, information had been lodged at the police office and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search, search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure and undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears. But still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct. It continued and became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definiteness. Until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale, but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound. Much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently. But the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men. But the noise steadily increased. Oh God! What could I do? I foamed, I raved, I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder, louder, louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! No, no! They heard! They suspected! They knew! They were making a mockery of my horror! This I thought and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! And now again! Hark! Louder! Louder! Louder! Louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked. "Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here! Here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!"


	4. Duck Hunt

**Duck Hunt by Joe R. Lansdale**

There were three hunters and three dogs. The hunters had shiny shotguns, warm clothes and plenty of ammo. The dogs were each covered in big blue spots and were sleek and glossy and ready to run. No duck was safe. The hunters were Clyde Barrow, James Clover and little Freddie Clover, who was only 15 and very excited to be asked along. However, Freddie did not really want to see a duck, let alone shoot one. He had never killed anything, but a sparrow with his BB gun and that had made him sick. But he was 9 then and now he was ready to be a man. His father told him so.

With this hunt, he felt as if he had become part of a secret organization. One that smelled of tobacco smoke and whiskey breath, sounded of swear words, talked about how good certain women were, the range and velocity of rifles and shotguns, the edges of hunting knives, the best caps and earflaps for winter hunting. In Mud Creek, the hunt made the man. Since Freddie was 9, he had watched with more than casual interest how when a boy turned 15 in Mud Creek, he would be invited to the hunting club for a talk with the men. Next step was a hunt and when the boy returned, he was a boy no longer. He talked deep, walked sure, had whiskers bristling on his chin and could take up with the assurance of not being laughed at, cussing, smoking and watching women's butts as a matter, of course.

Freddie wanted to be a man too. He had pimples, no pubic hair to speak of, he always showered quickly at school to avoid derisive remarks about the size of his equipment and the thickness of his foliage, scrawny legs and little grey watery eyes that looked like ugly planets spinning in white space and truth was, Freddie preferred a book to a gun. But came the day when Freddie turned 15 and his father came home from the club. Smoke and whiskey smell clinging to him like a hungry tick, his face slightly dark with beard and tired looking from all-night poker. He came into Freddie's room, marched over to the bed where Freddie was reading Thor, clutched the comic from his son's hands, sent it fluttering across the room with a rainbow of comic patents.

"Nose outta the book." His father said. "Time to join the club."

Freddie went to the club, heard the men talk ducks, guns, the way the smoke and blood smelled on cool morning breezes. They told him the kill was the measure of a man. They showed him heads on the wall. They told him to go home with his father and come back bright and early, ready for his first hunt. His father took Freddie downtown and bought a flannel shirt (black and red), a thick jacket (fleece-lined), a cap with ear flaps and boots (waterproof). He took Freddie home and took a shotgun down from the rack, gave him a box of ammo, walked him out back to the firing range and made him practice while he told his son about hunts and the war and how men and ducks died much the same. Next morning before the sun was up, Freddie and his father had breakfast. Freddie's mother did not eat with them. Freddie did not ask why. They met Clyde over at the club and rode in his jeep down dirt roads, clay roads and trails, through brushes and briars, until they came to a mass of reeds and cattails that grew thick and tall as Japanese bamboo. They got out and walked. As they walked, pushing aside the reeds and cattails, the ground beneath their feet turned marshy. The dogs ran ahead. When the sun was two hours up, they came to a bit of a clearing in the reeds and beyond them, Freddie could see the break-your-heart blue of a shiny lake. Above the lake, coasting down, he saw a duck. He watched it sail out of sight.

"Well, boy?" Freddie's father said.

"It's beautiful." Freddie said.

"Beautiful? Hell, are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

On they walked. The dogs way ahead now and finally they stood within ten feet of the lake. Freddie was about to squat down into doing as he had heard of others doing when a flock of ducks burst up from a mass of reeds in the lake and Freddie, fighting off the sinking feeling in his stomach, tracked them with the barrel of his shotgun, knowing what he must do to be a man. His father's hand clamped over the barrel and pushed it down.

"Not yet." He said.

"Huh?" said Freddie.

"It's not the ducks that do it." Clyde said.

Freddie watched as Clyde and his father turned their heads to the right where the dogs were pointing, noses forward, paws up raised to a thatch of underbrush. Clyde and his father made quick commands to the dogs to stay and they led Freddie into the brush, through a twisting maze of briars and out into a clearing where all of the members of the hunting club where waiting. In the center of the clearing was a gigantic duck decoy. It looked ancient and there were symbols carved all over it. Freddie could not tell if it were made of clay, iron or wood. The back of it was scooped out, gravy boat-like and there was a pole in the center of the indention. Tied to the pole was a skinny man. His head had been caked over with red mud and there were duck feathers sticking in it, making it look like some sort of funny cap. There was a ridiculous wooden duck bill held to his head by thick elastic straps. Stuck to his butt was a duster of duck feathers. There was a sign around his neck that read "Duck". The man's eyes were wide with fright and he was trying to say or scream something, but the bill had been fastened in such a way that he couldn't make any more than a mumble. Freddie felt his father's hands on his shoulders.

"Do it." He said. "He ain't nobody to anybody we know. Be a man."

"Do it. Do it. Do it." came the cry from the hunting club. Freddie felt the cold air turn into a hard ball in his throat. His scrawny legs shook. He looked at his father and the hunting club. They all looked tough, hard and masculine.

"Wanna be a titty baby all your life?" His father said.

That put steal in Freddie's bones. He cleared his eyes with the back of his sleeve and steadied the barrel on the derelict duck's head.

"Do it." came the cry. "Do it. Do it. Do it."

At that instant, he pulled the trigger. A cheer went up from the hunting club and out of the clear cold sky, a dark blue norther blew in and with it came a flock of ducks. The ducks lit on the great idle and on the derelict. Some of them dipped their bills into the derelict's wetness. When the decoy and the derelict were covered in ducks, all of the hunting club lifted their guns and began to fire. The air became full of smoke, pellets, blood and floating feathers. When the gunfire died down and the ducks died out, the hunting club went forward and bent over the decoy, did what they had to do. Their smiles were red when they lifted their heads. They wiped their mouths gruffly on the backs of their sleeves and gathered ducks into hunting bags until they bulged. There were still many carcasses lying about. Fred's father gave him a cigarette. Clyde lit it.

"Good shootin', son!" Fred's father said and clapped him manfully on the back.

"Yeah." said Fred, scratching his crotch. "Got that son of a bitch right between the eyes, pretty as picture."

They all laughed. The sky went lighter and the blue norther that was rustling the reeds and flipping feathers about blew up an out and away in an instant. As the men walked away from there, talking deep, walking sure, whiskers bristling on all their chins, they promised that tonight, they would get Fred a woman.


	5. First Anniversary

**First Anniversary by Richard Matheson**

Just before he left the house on Thursday morning, Adeline asked him "Do I taste sour to you?"

Norman looked at her reproachfully.

"Well, do I?"

He slipped his arms around her waist and nibbled at her throat.

"Tell me now." said Adeline.

Norman looked submissive.

"Aren't you gonna let me live it down?" He asked.

"Well, you said it, darling. And on out first anniversary too."

He pressed his cheek to hers.

"So I said it." He murmured. "Can't I be allowed a _faux pas_ now and then?"

"You still haven't answered me."

"Do you taste sour? Of course, you don't."

He held her close and breathed the fragrance of her hair.

"Forgiven?"

She kissed the tip of his nose and smiled and once more, he could only marvel at the fortune when it bestowed upon him, such a magnificent wife. Starting their second year of marriage, they were still like honeymooners. Norman raised her face and kissed her.

"Be damned!" He said.

"What's wrong? Am I sour again?"

"No." He looked confused. "Now I can't taste you at all."

* * *

"Now you can't taste her at all?" said Dr. Phillips.

Norman smiled. "I know it sounds ridiculous." He said.

"Well, it's unique. I'll give it that." said Phillips.

"More than you think." added Norman, his smile had grown a trifle labored.

"How so?"

"I have no trouble tasting anything else."

Dr. Phillips peered at him awhile before he spoke, "Can you smell her?" He asked then.

"Yes."

"You're sure."

"Yes. What's that got to do with-" Norman stopped. "You mean that the senses of taste and smell go together?" He said.

Phillips nodded. "If you can smell her, you should be able to taste her."

"I suppose." said Norman. "But I can't."

Dr. Phillips grunted wryly. "Quite a poser."

"No ideas?" asked Norman.

"Not offhand." said Phillips. "Though I suspect it's allergy of some kind."

Norman looked disturbed.

"I hope to find out soon." He said.

* * *

Adeline looked up from her stirring as he came into the kitchen.

"What did Dr. Phillips say?"

"That I'm allergic to you."

"He didn't say that." She scolded.

"Sure he did."

"Be serious now."

"He said I have to take some allergy tests."

"He doesn't think it's anything to worry about, does he?" asked Adeline.

"No."

"Oh, good." She looked relieved.

"Good, nothing." He grumbled. "The taste of you is one of the few pleasures I have in life."

"You stop that." She removed his hands and went on stirring. Norman slid his arm around her and rubbed his nose on the back of her neck.

"Wish I could taste you." He said. "I like your flavor."

She reached up and caressed his cheek.

"I love you." She said.

Norman twitched and made a startled noise.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

He sniffed. "What's that?" He looked around the kitchen.

"Is the garbage out?" He asked.

She answered quietly, "Yes, Norman."

"Well, something sure as hell smells awful in here. Maybe..." He broke off, seeing the expression on her face. She pressed her lips together and, suddenly, it dawned on him.

"Honey, you don't think I'm saying..."

"Well, are you?" Her voice was faint and trembling.

"Adeline, come in."

"First, I taste sour. Now-"

He stopped her with a lingering kiss.

"I love you." He said. "Understand? I love you. Do you think I'd try to hurt you?"

She shivered in his arms.

"You do hurt me." She whispered. He held her close and stroked her hair. He kissed her gently on the lips, the cheeks, the eyes. He told her again and again how much he loved her. He tried to ignore the smell.

* * *

Instantly, his eyes were open and he was listening. He stared up sightlessly into the darkness. Why had he woken up? He turned his head and reached across the mattress. As he touched her, Adeline stirred a little in her sleep. Norman twisted over on his side and wriggled close to her. He pressed against the yielding warmth of her body, his hand slipping languidly across her hip. He lay his cheek against her back and started drifting downward into sleep again.

Suddenly, his eyes flared open. Aghast, he put his nostrils to her skin and sniffed. An icy barb of dread hooked at his brain; My god, what's wrong? He sniffed again, harder. He lay against her, motionless, trying not to panic. If his senses of taste and smell were atrophying, he could understand, accept. They weren't, though. Even as he lay there, he could taste the acrid flavor of the coffee that he'd drunk that night. He could smell the faint odor of mashed-out cigarettes in the ashtray on his bedside table. With the least effort, he could smell the wool of the blanket over them.

Then why? She was the most important thing in his life. It was torture to him that, bits and pieces, she was fading from his senses.

It had been a favorite restaurant since their days of courtship. They liked the food, the tranquil atmosphere, the small ensemble which plated for dining and for dancing. Searching in his mind, Norman had chosen it as the place where they could best discuss the problem. Already, he was sorry that he had. There was no atmosphere that could relieve the tension he was feeling and expressing.

"What else could it be?" He asked, unhappily. "It's nothing physical." He pushed aside his untouched supper. "It's got to be my mind."

"But why, Norman?"

"If I only knew." He answered.

She put her hand on his. "Please don't worry." She said.

"How can I help it?" He asked. "It's a nightmare. I've lost part of you, Adeline."

"Darling, don't." She begged. "I can't bear to see you unhappy."

"I am unhappy. He said. He rubbed a finger on the tablecloth. "And I've just about made up my mind to see an analyst." He looked up. "It's got to be my mind." He repeated. "And damnit! I resent it! I want to root it out!"

He forced a smile, seeing the fear in her eyes.

"Oh, the hell with it." He said. "I'll go to an analyst. He'll fix me up. Come on, let's dance."

She managed to return his smile.

"Lady, you're just plain gorgeous." He told her as they came together on the dance floor.

"Oh, I love you so." She whispered.

It was in the middle of their dance that the feel of her began to change. Norman held her tightly, his cheek forced close to hers so that she wouldn't see the sickened expression on his face.

* * *

"And now it's gone?" finished Dr. Bernstrom.

Norman expelled a burst of smoke and jabbed out his cigarette on the ashtray.

"Correct." He said angrily.

"When?"

"This morning." answered Norman. The skin grew taut across his cheeks. "No taste, no smell," He shuddered fitfully. "And now, no sense of touch."

His voice broke. "What's wrong?!" He pleaded. "What kind of breakdown is this?!"

"Not an incomprehensible one." said Bernstrom.

Norman looked at him anxiously.

"What then?" He asked. "Remember what I said. It has to do only with my wife outside of her."

"I understand." said Bernstrom.

"Then what is it?!"

"You've heard of hysterical blindness?"

"Yes."

"Hysterical deafness?"

'Yes, but-"

"Is there any reason then? There couldn't be any hysterical restraint to the other senses as well?"

"Alright, but why?"

Dr. Bernstrom smiled.

"That, I presume," He said. "Is why you came to see me."

* * *

Sooner or later, the notion had to come. No amount of love could stay it. It came now as he sat alone in the living room staring at a blur of letters on a newspaper page. Look at the facts. Last Wednesday night, he'd kissed her and, frowning, said "You taste sour, honey". She tightened, drawn away. At the time, he had taken her reaction as it's obvious value. She felt insulted. Now he tried to sum up a detailed memory of her behavior afterwards. Because, on Thursday morning, he'd been unable to taste her at all.

Norman glanced guiltily toward the kitchen where Adeline was cleaning up. Except for her occasional footsteps, the house was silent. Look at the facts, his mind persisted. He leaned back in the chair and started to review them. Next, on Saturday, had come that dankly fetid stench. Granted, she should feel resentment if he'd accuse her of being it's source. But he hadn't. He was sure of it. He'd looked around the kitchen, asked her if she had put the garbage out. Yet, instantly, she assumed that he was talking about her. And, that night, when he's woken up, he couldn't smell her.

Norman closed his eyes. His mind must really be in trouble is he could justify such thoughts. He loved Adeline, needed her. How could he allow himself to believe that she was, in any way, responsible for what had happened? Then, in the restaurant, his mind went on, unbidden, while they were dancing, she'd suddenly felt cold to him. She suddenly felt - he could not evade the world - pulpy.

And then, this morning...

Norman flung aside the paper. Stop it! Trembling, he stared across the room with angry, frightened eyes. It's me, he told himself, me! He wasn't going to let his mind destroy the most beautiful thing in his life He wasn't going to let-

It was is if he'd turned to stone, lips parted, eyes widened, blank. Then, slowly, so slowly that he heard the delicate cracking of bones in his neck. He turned to looked toward the kitchen. Adeline was moving around. Only it wasn't footsteps he heard.

He was barely conscious of his body as he stood. Compelled, he had drifted from the living room and across the dining alcove, slippers noiseless on the carpeting. He stopped outside the kitchen door, his face a mask of something like revulsion as he listened to the sound she made in moving. Silence then. Bracing himself, he pushed open the door. Adeline was standing at the open refrigerator. She turned and smiled.

"I was just about to bring you..." She stopped and looked at him uncertainly. "Norman?" She said.

He couldn't speak. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at her.

"Norman, what is it?" She asked. He shivered violently. Adeline put down the dish of chocolate pudding and hurried towards him. He couldn't help himself. He shrank back with a tremulous cry. His face twisted, stricken.

"Norman, what's the matter?"

"I don't know!" He whimpered.

Again, she started for him, halting at his cry of terror. Suddenly, her face grew hardest with angry understanding.

"What is it now?" She asked. "I want to know."

He could only shake his head.

"I want to know, Norman!"

"No."

Faintly, frighteningly. She pressed trembling lips together.

"I can't take much more of this." She said. "I mean it, Norman."

He jerked aside as she passed him. Twisting around, he watched her going up the stairs. His expression one of horror as he listened to the noises that she made. Jamming palsy hands across his ears, he stood shivering uncontrollably. It's me, he told himself again, again until the words began to lose their meaning. It's me, it's me, it's me, it's me, it's me! Upstairs, the bedroom door slammed shut.

Norman lowered his hands and moved unevenly to the stairs. She had to know that he loved her, that he wanted to believe it was his mind. She had to understand. Opening the bedroom door, he felt his way through the darkness and sat on the bed. He heard her turn and knew that she was looking at him.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I'm...sick."

"No." She said. Her voice was lifeless.

Norman stared at her. "What?"

"There's no problem with other people. Our friends, tradesmen..." She said. "They don't see me enough. With you, it's different. We're together too often. The strain of hiding it from you hour after hour, day after day, for a whole year, is too much for me. I've lost the power to control your mind. All I can do is blank away your senses one by one."

"You're not-"

"-telling you those things are real? I am. They're real. The taste, the smell, the...and what you heard tonight."

He sat immobile, staring at the dark form of her.

"I should have taken all your senses when it started." She said. "It would have been easy then. Now it's too late."

"What are you talking about?" He could barely speak.

"It isn't fair!" cried her voice. "I've been a good wife to you! Why should I have to go back?! I won't go back! I'll find somebody else! I won't make the same mistake next time!"

Norman jerked away from her and stood on wavering legs, his fingers clutching for the lamp.

"Don't tough it!" ordered the voice.

The light flared blindingly into his eyes. He heard a thrashing on the bed and whirled. He couldn't even scream. Sound coagulated in his throat as he watched the shapeless mass rear upward, dripping decay.

"Alright!" The words exploded in his brain with the illusion of sound. " _Alright, then know me!_ "

All his senses flooded back at once. The air was clotted with the smell of her. Norman recoiled, lost balance, fell. He saw the moldering dead bulk rise from the bed and start for him. Then his mind was swallowed in consuming blackness and it seemed as if he had fled along a nice, swept hall, pursued by a suppliant voice which kept repeating endlessly, "Please! I don't want to go back! None of us want to go back! Love me! Let me stay with you! Love me, love me, _love me!_ "


	6. Two-Sentence Stories

**#1:**

The grinning face stared at me from the darkness beyond my bedroom window. I live on the fourteenth floor.

 **#2:**

Being buried alive was bad enough. Realizing I wasn't alone in my grave, well, that was worse.

 **#3:**

The scientists celebrated the very first successful cryogenic freezing. Unfortunately, he had no way of letting him know he was still conscious.

 **#4:**

I always thought my cat had a staring problem, since she always seemed fixated on my face. That is until one day, when I realized that she was actually looking just behind me.

 **#5:**

After I killed my wife, I was afraid my son would ask where his mom was. But he never did, until tonight after dinner when he asked me, "Daddy, why are you carrying mommy on your back?"

 **#6:**

There is nothing cuter than the laughter of a baby. That is, unless it's 1:00 AM and you're home alone.

 **#7:**

My girlfriend tells me to stop breathing to heavily. But I'm not.

 **#8:**

You hear your mother calling you from the kitchen. But when you head downstairs, you hear from the closet, "Don't go in the kitchen, honey. I heard it too."

 **#9:**

I woke up to hear knocking on the glass. At first, I thought it was from the window, until it came from the mirror again.

 **#10:**

I always did love your face and everything about it. That's why I'm wearing it now.

 **#11:**

I tuck my son in bed for the night when he tells me, "Daddy, check under the bed for monsters". I look under for his amusement when I see another him under the bed saying, "Daddy, there's something on my bed".


	7. Just Delicious

George Flint loved to eat. Each day at noon, he closed his camera shop for two hours and went home for a big lunch his wife Mina cooked for him. George was a bully and Mina was a timid woman who did everything he asked because she was afraid of him. On his way home for lunch one day, George stopped at the butcher shop and bought a pound of liver. He loved liver. He would have Mina cook it for dinner that night. Despite all his complaints about her, she was a very good cook.

While George ate his lunch, Mina told him that a rich old woman in town had died. Her body was in the church next door. It was in an open coffin. Anyone who wanted to see her could. As usual, George was not interested in what she had to say.

"I've got to go back to work." He told her.

After he left, Mina began to cook the liver. She added vegetables and spices and simmered it all afternoon, just the way George liked it. When she thought it was done, she cut off a small piece and tasted it. It was delicious, the best she had ever made. She ate a second piece. Then a third. It was so good, she could not stop eating it. It was only when the liver was all gone that she thought of George. He would be coming home soon. What would he do when he found that she had eaten all of the liver? Some men would laugh, but not George. He would be angry and mean, and she did not want to face that again. But where could she get another piece of liver that late in the day?

Then she remembered the old woman lying in the church next door waiting to be buried... George said he had never had a better dinner.

"Have some liver, Mina." He said. "It's just delicious."

"I'm not hungry." She said. "You finish it."

That night, after George had fallen asleep, Mina sat in bed trying to read. But all she could think about was what she had done. Then she thought she heard the woman's voice.

"Who has my liver?" It asked. "Who has it?"

Was it her imagination? Was she dreaming? Now the voice was closer.

"Who has my liver?" It asked. "Who has it?"

Mina wanted to run.

"No, no." She whispered. "I don't have it. I don't have your liver."

Now the voice was right next to her. "Who has my liver? Who has it?"

Mina froze with terror. She pointed to George.

"He does!" She said. "He has it!"

Suddenly the light went out and George screamed and screamed.


	8. The Curse

My dad's friend, Charlie Potter was a small nervous man, who was always looking around as if he was in some kind of danger. After he told me this story about his college fraternity, I understood why.

"The frat doesn't exist anymore." He said.

It was banned years ago. We had just nine members at that point. And we were taking in two more: Jack Lawton and Ernie Kramer. One night in January, just about this time of year, the nine of us took them out into the country for their initiation. We took them to an old deserted house where two young men about our age had been murdered recently. Their murderer was still at large. We gave Jack a lighted candle and told him to go up to the third floor.

"Stay there for an hour." We told him. "Then come back down. Don't speak. Don't make any noise. If your candle goes out, carry on in the dark."

From where we were standing, we could see the light from Jack's candle moving up the stairs to the second floor, then to the third. But when he got to the third floor, his candle went out. We guessed that he had come to a drafty corner, and the wind blew it out. But when the hour went by and he didn't come down, we weren't so sure. We waited another fifteen minutes and got more and more nervous.

So we sent Ernie Kramer up after him. When Ernie got to the third floor, his candle also went out. We waited ten minutes, twenty minutes, but there was no sign of either of them.

"Come on down!" We called, but they didn't answer.

Finally, we decided to go and get them. Armed with flashlights, we started up the stairs . It was as quiet and dark as a grave in that house. When we got to the second floor, we called out again, but there was no answer. When we got to the third floor, we walked into a great big open space like an attic. Jack and Ernie weren't there. But we saw footprints in the dust. These led to a room on the other side of the attic. That room was also empty. But there was fresh blood on the floor, and the window was wide open. It was about twenty-five feet to the ground, but there was no ladder or rope in sight that they could have used to get down. We searched the rest of the house and the land around the house and found nothing.

We decided that they were playing a trick on us. We figured that in some way they had escaped through the window and were hiding in the woods. The blood on the floor was to throw us off the track. We guessed that they'd show up the next day with a lot of stories and a lot of laughs. But they didn't.

The next day, we told the Dean of Men what had happened and he reported it to the police. The police didn't find anything either, and after several weeks the search ended. To this day no one knows what happened to Jack Lawton and Ernie Kramer. There isn't much more to tell. We weren't arrested, but the college disbanded the fraternity and suspended the nine of us from school for a year. The strangest part came after we graduated. Someone must have placed a curse on us. Every year since then, around the time of that initiation, one of us has died or gone crazy.

"I'm the only one left." He said. "And I'm in pretty good health. But there are times when I feel just a little peculiar..."


	9. The Black Dog

It was 11:00 at night. Peter Rothberg was in bed on the second floor of the old house where he lived alone. It had gotten so chilly, he went downstairs to turn up the heat. On his way back to bed, a black dog ran down the stairs. It passed him and disappeared into the darkness.

"Where did you come from?" Peter said. He had never seen the dog before. He turned on all the lights and looked in every room. He couldn't find the dog anywhere. He went outside and brought in the two watchdogs he kept in the backyard. But they acted as if they were the only dogs in the house.

The next night, again at 11:00, Peter was in his bedroom. He heard what sounded like a dog walking around in the room above him. He dashed upstairs and threw open the door. The room was empty. He looked under the bed. He looked in the closet. Nothing. But when he got back to his bedroom, he heard a dog running down the stairs. It was the black dog. He tried to follow it, But again he couldn't find where it had gone. From then on, every night at 11:00, Peter heard the dog walking in the room above him. The room was always empty. But after he left, the dog would come out of hiding, run down the stairs, and disappear.

One night Peter's neighbor waited with him for the dog. At the usual time, they heard it above them. Then they heard on the stairs. When they went out into the hall, it was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at them. The neighbor whistled and the dog wagged its tail. Then it was gone.

Things went on this way. Until the night Peter decided to bring his watchdogs into the house again. Maybe this time they would find the black dog and drive it away. Just before 11:00, he took them up to his bedroom, and left the door open. Then he heard the black dog moving around above him. The dogs pricked up their ears and ran to the door. Suddenly, they bared their teeth and snarled and backed away. Peter could not see the black dog or hear it, but he was sure that it had entered his room. His dogs barked and snapped. They darted forward nervously and then backed away again.

Suddenly, one of them yelped. It began bleeding, then dropped to the floor, its neck torn open. A minute later, it was dead. Peter's other dog backed into a corner, whimpering. Then, everything was still.

The next night, Peter's neighbor came back with a pistol. Again they waited in his bedroom. At 11:00, the black dog came down the stairs. As before, it looked up at them and wagged its tail. As they started toward it with a pistol, it growled and disappeared. That was the last Peter saw of the black dog. But that didn't mean the dog was gone. Now and then, always at 11:00, he heard it moving around above him. Once he heard it running down the stairs, he'd never manage to see it again. But he knew that it was there.


	10. The Wendigo

A wealthy man wanted to go hunting in a part of northern Canada where few people had ever hunted. He traveled to a trading post and tried to find a guide to take him. But no one would do it. It was too dangerous, they said. Finally, he found an Indian who needed money badly, and he agreed to take him. The Indian's name was DéFago. They made camp in the snow near a large frozen lake.

For three days they hunted, but they had nothing to show for it. The third night a windstorm came up. They lay in their tent listening to the wind howling and the trees whipping back and forth. To see the storm better, the hunter opened the tent flap. What he saw startled him. There wasn't a breath of air stirring and the trees were standing perfectly still. Yet he could hear the wind howling. And the more he listened, the more it sounded as if it were calling DéFago's name.

 _Dé-Faaaaaaaaa-go!_

 _Dé-Faaaaaaaaa-go!_

I must be losing my mind, the hunter thought. But DéFago had gotten out of his sleeping bag. He was huddled in a corner of the tent, his head buried in his arms.

"What's this all about?" The hunter asked.

"It's nothing." DéFago said.

But the wind continued to call to him. And DéFago became more tense and more restless.

 _Dé-Faaaaaaaaa-go!_

 _Dé-Faaaaaaaaa-go!_

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and began to run from the tent. But the hunter grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground.

"You can't leave me out here!" The hunter shouted. Then the wind called again and DéFago broke loose, ran into the darkness and disappeared. The hunter could hear him screaming as he went. Again and again he cried, "Oh, my fiery feet! My burning feet of fire..." Then his voice faded away, and the wind died down.

At daybreak, the hunter followed DéFago's tracks in the snow. They went through the woods, down toward the lake, then out onto the ice. But soon he noticed something strange. The steps DéFago had taken got longer and longer. They were so long no human being could have taken them. It was as if something had helped him to hurry away. The hunter followed the tracks out to the middle of the lake, but there they disappeared. At first, he thought that DéFago had fallen through the ice, but there wasn't any hole. Then he thought that something had pulled him off the ice into the sky. But that made no sense.

As he stood wondering what had happened, the wind picked up again. Soon it was howling as it had the night before. Then he heard DéFago's voice. It was coming from up above and again he heard DéFago screaming, "...my fiery feet! my burning feet...!" But there was nothing to be seen. Now the hunter wanted to leave that place as fast as he could. He went back to camp and packed. Then he left some food for DéFago and he started out.

Weeks later, he reached civilization. The following year he went back to hunt in that area again. He went to the same trading post to look for a guide. The people there could not explain what had happened to DéFago that night. But they had not seen him since then.

"Maybe it was the Wendigo." One of them said and he laughed. "It's supposed to come with the wind. It drags you along at great speed until your feet are burned away and more of you than that. Then it carries you into the sky and it drops you. It's just a crazy story, but that's what some of the Indians say."

A few days later, the hunter was at the trading post again. An Indian came in and sat by the fire. He had a blanket wrapped around him, and he wore his hot so that you couldn't see his face. The hunter thought there was something familiar about him.

He walked over and he asked, "Are you DéFago?"

The Indian didn't answer.

"Do you know anything about him?" No answer. He began to wonder if something was wrong, if the man needed help. But he couldn't see his face.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

Still no answer. To get a look at him, he lifted the Indian's hat and then he screamed. There was nothing under the hat, but a pile of ashes.


End file.
